Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
Jennifer let out a sharp, hysterical laugh, stepping back toward the back door of the main house. "Ethan, don't be ridiculous! You can't kick us out! This is the family estate! Mother controls the property management board!"
"This house is registered under my private holdings company, Ethan Duca Enterprises," I replied calmly, taking a small leather cardholder from my jacket pocket and tossing my corporate lawyer's business card onto the stainless steel kitchen counter. "Every single deed, every tax record, and every utility bill is under my name alone. You are guests in my house, Jennifer. And your invitation just expired."
Jennifer’s eyes flicked to the card, then to my face. Seeing that I wasn't bluffing, her fake affection melted away completely, replaced by a ugly, venomous sneer.
"You arrogant bastard," she hissed. "You think because you made some money overseas you can come back here and treat your own blood like trash? We protected your assets! We kept this gold-digger from draining your bank accounts while you were gone!"
"Emma didn't touch my bank accounts," I said, my chest heaving with built-up rage. "Because every month, my financial manager transferred forty thousand dollars directly to an account under my mother's name, meant specifically for Emma’s personal allowance and house maintenance."
Jennifer looked away, a nervous twitch touching her cheek.
I stepped closer to her, my shadow swallowing her completely. "Where did that money go, Jennifer?"
She didn't answer.
"I'm going to ask my mother that question right now," I said softly.
I took Emma by the hand, gently wrapping my arm around her shoulder to support her, and led her out of the outdoor kitchen, through the service hallway, and directly toward the main dining room where the party was still in full swing.
The grand dining room was a sea of luxury. Fifty guests—local high-society figures, Michael’s country club friends, and my sister's wealthy socialite circle—were drinking vintage champagne from my private cellar and eating imported caviar served on silver platters.
At the head of the long mahogany table sat my mother, Margaret Duca. She was wearing a diamond necklace that had cost me ninety thousand dollars in Geneva last year—a necklace I had explicitly sent home as an anniversary gift for Emma.
"To the Duca family!" my younger brother Michael shouted from the head of the room, raising a crystal flute. "To endless success and my brother's deep pockets!"
The room erupted into laughter and applause.
"Thank you all for coming!" my mother chimed in, her voice full of grand authority. "As head of the Duca estate, I ensure our family standard remains elite!"
"Is that so, Mother?"
May you like
My voice cut through the laughter like a cold steel blade.
The entire dining room went quiet. Guests turned around in surprise. My mother froze with her glass halfway to her lips, her eyes widening in horror as she saw me standing in the doorway—holding hand with a soaked, grease-stained Emma.
